When the War Is Over (6 page)

“Laughing, gentlemen? Laughing?” He had heard a major speak so once. “What is it, Padgett?”

“It's
Come to Jesus,
” Padgett managed.

“Ah. By Doctor Newman Hall. The Christian Commission has been making its rounds. Well, we can't argue with that. But if anybody more important than a lieutenant walks in, you better just drop Jesus.”

“Yes sir.”

Catto, who was beginning to think himself a colonel, assumed an amiable solemnity. “I want to say a few words. Settle down and keep quiet.” He waited. Groans. Clatter. They lit pipes and fanned smoke. How long, Catto wondered, since I have been alone? Have I ever in my life been alone?

“This will be a hard winter,” he began, “and I am now going to tell you how to stay healthy and keep out of leg irons. You all know what the trouble is: the war is almost over and there isn't much for us to do. You're slobs to start with, and it will be worse now. First: report the least sign of sickness. Anything. Headache, a rash, whatever. The surgeons may send you right back, but there's plenty of quinine and no need to take chances. Then: bathe. Wash your filthy bodies. Keep your feet clean.” His gaze flickered to Franklin. “And don't tell me you've heard all this before. You're the dirtiest bunch I've ever served with. There's barbers around. Use them. Keep the graybacks down. You'll be going to town now and then, and no sense straggling in like tramps. Also the surgeon tells me that the typhoid rate goes up every year, and not down.”

They shifted, scratched and primped.

“Now about keeping busy. When you're off duty, which will be most of the time, you can use books and games. You can write letters. You can keep your equipment in good order. You can even volunteer for odd jobs.” He received the gentle hoots with merry self-mockery, and cut them off with a wave. “I was going to suggest that you study tactics—that's how Godwinson got his stripes—but it doesn't make too much sense now; this is probably the last war this country will ever fight. If you can find ways to catch up on your, ah, citizen occupations, go to it. Packages from home ought to be delivered on time now, and your letters will go out every day. Padgett's Christian Commission dumped a lot of paper and envelopes with the colonel; just ask. The colonel also has the names of some photographers in Cincinnati, if you want your picture in uniform. The price is listed and if they cheat you tell the colonel.

“Now.” He paused. “Discipline.” For the moment they matched his gravity. “You will have damn little to do for the next few months. Guard duty, mostly. The weekly inspection and the daily roll call. I want this barracks clean. Very clean. Not just no bugs, but soap clean. Other than that, you'll have days to fill. Weeks. Winter weeks too, with no chance to kick a ball around.

“That's the first thing. The second thing is General Hooker. He may never know you're here. He's a busy man. If he does hear about us, I'd like it to be for some, ah, complimentary reason. Not because Routledge has set fire to Cincinnati or Franklin has asphyxiated a roomful of people or one of you sharpers has cleaned out the Hundred Ninety-second at cards. Hooker is also a hard man, and unpredictable. So no horseplay with the corporal of the guard. Turn out on time and never mind the practical jokes. And no sitting down on guard, and don't leave your beat without relief. No noise after taps, and if you need a fight save it for a day in town. Let's have nobody hung up by his thumbs, or buck-and-gagged. You've got to be more careful because I'm an easy officer, so you can start practicing on me: no more disrespect, and let's all call me sir at all times. I'll let you in on something: I want to stay far the army, it's the best home I ever had, and I don't want to be cut down to corporal when the war is over. That's partly up to you. So anybody who ever ate part of a pig I stole, or showed his ass and had nothing said about it—now's the time to pay me back. One more thing: don't ever sass an officer. Anything that sounds like a threat can win you a year in irons. If you brangle with an officer there's nothing I can do to help you. I'll toss you to the dogs. That goes for raiding the sutlers too.”

It was well done, he knew. A shame Phelan had not been present. Now the men were silent, concerned, almost frightened. With an evil smile Catto broke the mood: “Hooker has nothing against whiskey. I imagine there will be occasional distributions during the inclement season.”

This was followed by romp and hurrah, on which General Catto took his triumphant leave.

Next morning Colonel Bardsley told him that Thomas Martin had been found guilty of guerrilla activity and sentenced to be shot to death with musketry.

III

Catto had not consorted much with generals, only that one impassioned chat with Rosecrans; about General August Willich he was uncertain. Deference might be proper; Willich was military commandant of Cincinnati. Easy fellowship might be proper: Willich had served with distinction at Shiloh and Stones River and Chickamauga and Chattanooga. Also Catto was curious about the useless arm. And then the general was a foreigner, a revolutionary in Germany about fifteen years before. Catto was of two minds about revolutionaries. Washington and Jefferson and Ethan Allen. All those names. John Hancock. But now times had changed, and those men were lauded, by stout officials on special occasions, in much the way that police chiefs and mayors were lauded. So he wondered about Willich.

Catto took a hitch in his trousers, once more admonished his inner devils, and advanced warily; he was properly amazed when Willich glowed and twinkled like every man's grandfather and spoke warmly: “Catto. Good to see you, son. We should have met before; I hear you were wounded at Stones River. That was quite a time. Come and sit down.” They shook hands, Willich extending his left without awkwardness; the right arm hung limp, paralyzed. Resaca, August, 1864; so short a time ago, this man was whole! Catto liked him immediately, instinctively, as one always tended to like another who reflected some feature, some quality, a strong nose or full lips or humor in the eyes. The general stood about six feet and was blond and blue-eyed and fair-skinned and bore an open and generous expression, sad, affectionate, the wrinkles of a man, the eyes and mouth of a boy. “Been wounded again since, hey? Tell me what I can do for you.”

Catto mumbled. This heartiness was irregular. Approaching Willich had been in the nature of a hard climb, a short but slippery step to the shoulder of one suspicious captain, a leap then to a bored and indifferent lieutenant-colonel, a slip sidewise to the adjutant, a day's wait for regrouping and provisioning, and here he was with this warm and friendly gentleman, slightly rumpled, who called him son. Catto seated himself. The room was more like a parlor or a banker's office than a general's headquarters: a desk, a sofa, several armchairs, a few engravings of horses and game-birds, a cabinet. No crossed sabers, no racked rifles. Willich himself seemed about to potter, to pull out a feather duster and set to work. He rubbed his hands and smiled. “A cigar?”

“Why, thank you. Sir.”

“You've earned a cigar. I don't use them myself.” Willich tossed him a thick phosphorous match; Catto struck it on a button (Damn! Wrong thing to do!) and waited for the gases to dissipate. “I see you turned down a colonelcy with the Twenty-fifth Corps.”

Catto blew smoke, and examined the lighted cigar in manly fashion. “Yes sir. It was quite a temptation. But I don't much like them. Sort of uneasy around them. Never saw one till I was about twelve. And they're temporary, I imagine; why else would anyone offer a colonelcy to a young fellow like me? And where would I be later when they took my black heroes away from me and sent them home?”

“Yes. I understand. However. You have business.”

“Yes.” Catto was relieved and emboldened. “The boy Thomas Martin has been sentenced to death. You know about that?”

Willich nodded and looked owlish.

“That's a terrible thing for grown men to do,” Catto went on.

“Oh it is, it is,” Willich told him gravely.

Catto scowled. “Well then, well then—” He bit down on the cigar.

“You take that seriously,” the general said.

“I do,” said Catto. “I am the one he shot and I am the one who brought him in. He is a poor country boy who cannot read or write, and is the next thing to an orphan, and wouldn't know Mister Lincoln from Jeff Davis. If you don't mind my saying so, General, I am damned upset about this.”

“Well, I think I do mind,” said Willich. “In the first place, bad language never saved a lost cause.”

“I apologize,” Catto said stiffly.

“And in the second place, the boy has already been paroled in my charge.” Willich was grinning. Catto cursed himself for a fool. Willich said, “He has already polished my boots half a dozen times, and carried a message to Judge Stallo—halfway across Cincinnati without a guard!—and returned promptly with an answer. He is saving his tips and will surely be a success in later life.”

“I'm a fool,” Catto said.

“Ah. Then go back one step and try to think like a general. Do you know that there are still a thousand guerrillas in Kentucky? Even in southern Illinois? Illinois was settled mainly by southerners. Those people can do great damage. The death sentence has become automatic, but only to deter, only as a caution. It would hardly do to let them feel that they could kill and burn with impunity.”

“But the boy wasn't a guerrilla.”

“We cannot be sure. We resolved the doubt in our own favor; in favor of innocent people who are potential victims. That we must do. We had no choice.”

“But the boy.” Catto's confusion deepened.

“I interviewed the boy when they brought him in,” Willich said. “For heaven's sake, Catto, what must you think of me? The court-martial was necessary. The verdict was necessary. The boy will have the freedom of the city and will do odd jobs for my staff. When the war ends I will give him a gold piece and a suit of clothes and send him home.”

“For God's sake,” Catto sighed.

“You astound me, Lieutenant. A man of your talents. Now look here. In Germany I was almost killed—I was exiled, did you know that?—fighting for a republic, and against the censorship, and for life's good things for all. And here I was an editor, a good newspaper, the
Deutsche Republikaner
right here in the city, and I tell you, what I care most about is injustice. All my life. Why am I here? With this useless wing?” Willich had grown vehement; Catto nodded respectfully. “Well, well,” said the general. “So. You see. Why would you want to stay in the army if the army was what you seem to think it is?”

“Now how did you know that? Sir.”

“Generals hear things. The army is people, and people are not bad, my boy. Do you think a man like Abraham Lincoln would sign an order for that boy's execution? Ah, no. Ah, no.”

Again Catto nodded. “That occurred to me. But he's a long way off. Maybe,” and he grinned ingratiatingly at his own impudence, “it's because I'm a good lieutenant: an order is an order. So I didn't believe—”

“But you are not a good lieutenant,” Willich said primly. “You are known, to me and others, as an easy officer and somewhat puppyish.”

Aghast, Catto sat silent.

“On the other hand, your men have fought well and none have deserted. So maybe you are not such a bad lieutenant after all, hey? You see, generals are not fools. In that, times have changed. When I was your age all generals were fools.”

Catto nodded sheepishly.

“Was there anything else?” Willich was now merely-polite.

“Yes.” Catto cleared his throat. “Yes sir, there is. I have a Jonah named Routledge, over forty, has nine children at home. He's more trouble than he's worth and I want to see if I can get him out of the army.”

Willich's brows rose, came to half-mast, rose again.

“It just makes no sense having him here,” Catto said.

“Well, that's another problem.” Willich's tone was encouraging, intimate; Catto experienced a tickle of hope. “What makes sense, and what does not.” Hope died. “It depends on who is deciding, does it not. However. Over forty, you say. Large family. I'll look into it. Anything else?”

“No sir. Happy to have met you at last and I hope I've been no bother.” Catto had wanted a warmer note but his tongue, or his heart, failed him.

“My pleasure, Lieutenant. Good day to you.”

Catto went out cursing himself, not sure why, needing hullaballoo and uproar to drown out a sharp and nagging inner voice, the voice of failure, of pomposity; the cracking voice of a pimpled schoolboy. Within him, mysterious calefactions, moral cramps. He stomped across a parade ground, lowering and dour, and sure enough, the thought came, adding shame to his other perplexities, quandaries and conundrums:
God damn them all!
He looked about him, an action unwilled and irresistible, but he was alone.

Still, he had accomplished a morning's work. Converse with a general; the boy safe; a word in for Routledge. Not to mention a fine cigar; he drew on it briskly now, and frowned slightly to give himself importance. He felt rather a new man, one whose circle of acquaintances included those of the highest rank and attainment; one who had single-handed saved Thomas Martin; one who was shipping Routledge home, with a hearty grip of the hand and a few sound aphorisms. His stomp altered to a swagger. Vanity, vanity.

“I suppose I must accustom myself to this doing nothing.” He launched a greasy ring of cigar smoke, domestic this time, hours later; it undulated briefly in the yellow light, floated to Phelan's cluttered table, ringed a phial, writhed, clung, decomposed, vanished.

“Not bad,” Phelan said. “I wish the flesh would behave so. Leave not a rack behind. Your boys were burying horses today. Some of them anyway. The big fellow with a beard.”

“Routledge. Probably buried his own foot by mistake, and is still out there wondering what to do about it. Is there a medical term for people who never do anything right?”